by PJ Manney
“Jesus, Mandy, you know me better . . .”
“. . . but that wasn’t it. Jessica’s husband was having an affair in New York, and I had to hear about it ad nauseam. That wasn’t it . . .”
He let her talk. He didn’t want to say the words first.
“You’re just . . . different. So much going on. You talk in your sleep. You never used to. Like you’re replaying some mental tape you made.” She looked at his hair growing back from the surgery and, pulling her hand from his, ran her fingers over it. Her face fell. The mushroom cloud of understanding reflected in her eyes scorched his. “Please . . . tell me you didn’t . . . please, Pete.” His guilty expression betrayed him. “Oh, God! Why? Was this Ruth’s idea?”
“Baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. This isn’t how I wanted you to find out. You know I’ve never lied to you . . .”
“You lie to me every fucking time the Phoenix Club comes up. You’re a fucking liar!”
“But that’s . . .”
“All these lies . . . You’re destroying us. Destroying our family. And you know what? Ever since Biogineers ended, you made me a liar, too. You know that? I lied to you, too!”
Peter blinked rapidly, as though flicking eyelids could brush away visions plaguing his brain. “What . . . how?”
“Do you honestly think Carter would have come rushing to our aid, guns blazing, if I hadn’t told him everything? That day you went to lunch? He knew all about your plans with Ruth. Everything. He knew he could save you with the right business opportunity. And I told him yours. That’s why he moved heaven and earth for us! We needed his help, and your big idea was the payment. I thought having him as your partner would stop this stupid shit, like you being a guinea pig! I thought everything was perfect . . .”
Peter spoke, barely within the threshold of hearing. “How many other lies . . . ?”
“You men are fucking eggshells. You’ve got egos for shit. I knew if I told you, you’d think Carter was doing you a pity favor and turn him down. Or you’d think I put words in his mouth. No, you had to make him do the whole dance . . . prove his loyalty, his belief in you . . .”
Two years spooled backward, during which his wife and his best friend had manipulated him without his knowledge. “How many other lies have you both told me?” Rage exploded. Emotions spun around and around, and recorded memories played at top speed. He couldn’t stop the tornado of fury. His new, indelible memories wouldn’t let him.
Her strangled laugh surprised him. “Who just got caught having secret brain surgery?”
He shook more violently than she. He hadn’t lost his temper like this since Lobo and Biogineers. Disgusted, he sprung from his seat, desperate to escape.
She reached out. “Stop acting like we’ve betrayed you! We just wanted to help. We love you. Please, Pete. Come over here. Come . . .” She patted the bed, and he reluctantly stepped near her. “I’ll forgive you, if you forgive me. Please, baby . . .”
His voice choked with regret, devotion, and pain. He said, “You’re the only people I’ve ever loved other than Pop. And you ganged up on me! I’ve . . . got to go out . . . for a minute . . .”
He fled, running down the hospital hall. It was awful leaving his wife alone when she needed him, but he had to leave because he was afraid of what he might say. Might do. How could a woman, whom he loved beyond words, manipulate him like that? Was it really so bad? His hurt was knotted up with a nameless paranoia he couldn’t release. Had his father’s rage been like this? He knew his brain clung to the negativity because of his augmentation. But why? And another question swirled through the anger: Was he being paranoid enough?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The repetitive memory of his wife’s anguish and their mutual deception haunted Peter. Concentrating on the Cortex 2.0 helped as the work’s complexity displaced some pain. Amanda worked from home. She didn’t want to face coworkers’ questions or pitiable silence, and the combination of antidepressants and anxiety medication made concentration and driving difficult. He also suspected she didn’t want to spend more time with him than was necessary. Desperate to have her back to normal, but equally glad for space, Peter begged her to take it easy.
Two weeks before the camp deadline, Peter sat in the lab with Ruth, Carter, Chang, and Bino, as Bino ran diagnostics and tests on Peter’s processor. So far, so good. It picked up signals, recording and responding to them from both the Hippo 2.0 and Peter’s own neurons.
“Vi gait es eich, mein Übermensch?” asked Ruth.
“Got that Yiddish-English dictionary loaded up yet?” Peter joked to Bino.
“Nope, but can I add a Hindi one, while I’m at it?” Bino quipped as he typed and clicked commands. “My grandmother talks to me like I should understand her. You can chat her up for me, least till I get me one o’ these.”
“Why bother? You’ll all be learning Mandarin soon enough.” Chang’s modestly contained smile couldn’t stop the twinkle in his eyes. “Peter will have a head start on you all. He only has to listen to the tapes once.”
“I’m waiting for the direct download,” said Peter. “Hey! That’s our new ancillary business. Direct educational downloads. Just in time for the investors. School’s out next quarter!” he crooned like Alice Cooper.
While everyone else groaned, Carter snorted derisively, even though the time for protest had long passed. The equipment was working, so what could he say that his body language didn’t? Expressionless, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, one leg crossed over the other. It didn’t take a behaviorist to see he wished he could distance himself from what he still believed was unacceptable risk to both the company and his partner. Peter had tried to warm the chill between them over the last few weeks, and it appeared to be working, until the tiny objects of their disagreement became the focus once more.
“I asked, ‘How are you doing, my Superman?’ ” translated Ruth.
“Good. Again, like last time, nothing momentous to start.”
“You’ve got nothing important to remember or process yet,” explained Chang. “Just wait until you’ve got a lot of information coming at you. Parallel systems working independently, in tandem. Then hang on!”
“Rock and roll . . .” said Peter. His GO rang. “Bino, you done yet?”
“CYA, dude. You’re technically locked and loaded, but I’m just backing up. Can’t have Superman flying ’round in ripped undies.”
Peter checked the number flashing on the GO screen. It was Reception, probably trying to track him down, so he ignored it. Too much personal capital rode on this working perfectly with his wife and his partner. “By all means, man, cover both our asses.” He turned back to Chang. “How much will we have to teach it to work, meaning do we need a rehabilitation protocol? Or will it just pick up neural slack one day when I’m on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride?”
Carter’s GO rang and he answered, “Potsdam . . .”
Chang replied, “There may be a functional difference between Cortex 2.0 as a therapy versus enhancement. Given your preexisting, highly connected brain, as opposed to an Alzheimer’s patient, I’m guessing you’d need sensory . . .”
“Shit!” Carter sprinted out of the room, yelling, “Peter, get out of here! Now!”
Everyone was startled. Peter leapt up. “Where are you going?”
The diminishing voice down the hall cried, “Lobby! FBI! They’ve got a warrant!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Running through the offices, Peter couldn’t help but wonder if the feds had a warrant for all that “illegal” equipment in their basement. But it didn’t account for the fear in Carter’s voice. He dashed after his partner, gripping the Cortex 2.0 processor in his right hand, and burst into the lobby to face three FBI agents with guns drawn swiveling toward him. He skidded to a stop and threw his hands in the air, showing them he only held a tiny gizmo.
“It’s all right!” shouted a man in a blue suit, wearing a black bulletproof vest with “FBI” embla
zoned on the front and back. The agents lowered their guns. Moments before, the same man had been talking to Carter, whose tennis-tanned face looked sickly green. The agent flipped open his badge and said, “Agent Derek Struthers. FBI.”
“What the fuck is this?” blasted Peter.
“Where is Chang Eng?” asked Struthers.
“I told you. He’s upstairs in the computer lab!” insisted Carter.
“I’m asking Mr. Bernhardt.” The agent’s laser-like focus never left Peter’s face.
He remembered his attorney’s advice: roll over and cooperate. “Um . . . yeah . . . I just left him there. Why?”
“We have . . .” but men shouting outside interrupted Struthers.
Peter ran to the glass entry doors.
Outside in the parking lot, a row of six identical black Suburbans created a barrier and shielded a flak-jacketed agent with a megaphone. Next to him were a dozen similarly attired agents lined up with guns and rifles drawn. Megaphone stared at the opposite end of the Prometheus building from Peter, then yelled through the horn to someone unseen, “Stop! Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air!”
Chang ran from the building’s far end, holding a gun.
“What the fuck . . . !” Peter burst through the doors onto the concrete path outside, desperate to reach Chang and stop him.
Carter tried to haul him back inside. “Pete, don’t!”
“I repeat,” yelled Megaphone. “You are surrounded! Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air! Or we will shoot!”
The three lobby agents rushed Peter and held tight as he struggled in vain, unable to see what was happening.
A single gunshot erupted from his friend’s direction.
“Chang!” screamed Peter.
A percussive hail of bullets drowned out all else. Then he noticed something strange. While the rounds were firing at the same rate, they seemed drawn out, as though he could hear each shooter choose to pull the trigger and each bullet choose to explode from the barrel.
When the firing stopped, the agents released their hold, and Peter ran into the parking lot. Everyone moved as if under water . . . but why? Chang’s bullet-riddled chest gradually leaked shiny-red blood onto the pavement. No one let Peter near. Shooters moved cautiously to the body, guns still drawn, yelling commands, as one of them checked for vital signs.
Chang Eng was dead.
Peter lost sight of the body as agents closed in around it.
Agent Struthers tugged his arm, guiding him back to the building in slow motion. “Mr. Bernhardt. We need to talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Peter officially hated conference rooms. Especially his own. But this experience was different from the debacle with Bruce Lobo. There was no bad guy to fight. Instead, one part of his mind was here, present, listening to Agents Struthers and Gualardi deconstruct events for him and Carter. And the other kept reviewing the traumatic events he just witnessed . . .
“We knew fifteen months ago that the 10/26 bots came from inside the country,” said Agent Struthers, “after analyzing the design and manufacturing techniques of Biogineers and its competitors in Asia. Which left only Biogineers, or an employee of Biogineers, implicated in the attacks. You, as well as every one of your former employees, have been under surveillance for some time. . . .”
“No shit.”
“. . . and Mr. Eng was extremely good at covering his tracks, which is why his identification took so long. I’m sure you can understand why we had to be sure. I’m disappointed we couldn’t take him into custody, but when arresting a suspect involved in such an unthinkable act, it would be foolish and dangerous to give him the opportunity to do something potentially lethal to our agents or yourselves.”
Carter kept shaking his head the entire time. “But why would he do it? Chang was the nicest, most low-key, apolitical guy I ever met.”
“And I worked with him for over a decade. I know him. He’s not the guy. You killed an innocent man,” said Peter.
Struthers continued, “He wasn’t innocent. He ran out with a gun. We also established a clear link between Chang and ATEAMO. Apparently, he was sympathetic to their cause and was paid handsomely for his complicity.”
“Where and when did he make the bots?” demanded Peter. “How did he transport them? Who were his contacts? Who paid him? Come on, guys, give me something I can get my hands around. Otherwise, this is bullshit.”
“You’ll have to be debriefed at a higher level than me, sir.”
“That’s no answer,” hammered Peter. “And if you knew fifteen months ago that the bots came from my lab, why weren’t we helping you look for the suspects?”
Struthers looked at Peter like he was a slow learner. “Because Biogineers and Prometheus are still under investigation.”
“But you claim you caught your guy!” said Peter.
“There may be more conspirators,” replied Struthers. “And we have reason to believe there is unauthorized use of technology going on in this building.”
“What unauthorized use?” asked Carter.
“If it’s here, we’ll find it,” said the agent.
Peter could have sworn Struthers was looking right at the incision in his scalp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The partners briefed their staff with what little they knew, then sent everyone home for the remainder of the day, with the exception of the IT department. Unfortunately, those poor bastards had to work with the FBI. Agents swarmed Engineering and Chang’s office, taking hard drives, copying company servers, and generally pissing Peter off. Ruth and Bino stayed behind to tell Peter that the moment after Peter ran from the lab, Chang did as well, disappearing down the nearest stairwell like a panicked jackrabbit.
The partners retreated to Peter’s office for a private meeting.
“I swear to God I didn’t know this would happen. I swear it, Pete.” Carter hunched on Peter’s office sofa.
Peter paced. “You had the contacts to find out . . .”
“Contacts only work if you know what you’re contacting them for. I wasn’t wandering around DC asking, ‘Is the FBI going to raid me?’ Josiah must have known we’d be raided some time before today . . .” This disturbed Carter, and he hunched even more. “But how long did he know? And if he did, I have to believe he kept us in the dark for a reason.”
“I don’t know how Chang pulled it off. You really think he was a terrorist?”
“Since Waco, the FBI usually don’t kill people by mistake. The press is too harsh. And who can cover up a shoot-out in a Silicon Valley parking lot in broad daylight? But . . . he did joke about us all learning Mandarin . . .”
“Oh, please, anyone with half a brain jokes about learning Mandarin,” Peter said. “Why shouldn’t Chang? My God . . . I can’t believe he’s dead . . .” He tried to roll his pained neck loose as he paced in ever-increasing spirals. “But why’d you assume the worst? What’d you think was going on?”
Carter didn’t reply for a moment. He looked out the window at the hills above Stanford and took a deep breath, apology heavy in his eyes. “Remember the warrant rumor at the Inauguration? I thought the feds changed their minds and were here to arrest you for 10/26. And no one would have told me. Everyone knows if I had any inkling you’d be arrested, I’d have had your and Amanda’s asses on my plane to a nonextradition treaty–country so fast, it would make their Beltway blockheads spin. Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.” Carter lay out on the sofa and threw his legs up on the back. He closed his eyes. “I need a drink so badly, I’d sell my mother to organ harvesters.”
Agents stalked the halls outside Peter’s door. “I’m going home. There’s scotch there. And Amanda’s having a freak-out . . . though who knows what kind with the crap she’s on. She’ll want to see us both.”
He shut off the lights and followed Carter down the hallway, past a suited agent rifling a file cabinet. The agent’s hair was the same color and cut as the preppy kid at Stanford who may or may not have be
en a federal agent himself. And what about the others following him? Or could he now add delusional to his list of post-op mental quirks?
That night, his dreams were more intense than ever before. His mind twirled and whirled, drifting deeper into the maelstrom of fantasies.
Chang ran into the parking lot, but Peter stood behind him, pointing a 9mm at his back, riddling Chang with bullets to stand over his body with the smoking gun. Then it was Peter who ran, and Chang who shot him full of holes. FBI agents appeared robotic, free-floating, interchangeable.
Peter awoke in terror, fixating on one detail: the color and flow of Chang’s blood. There was so much, so red. Peter knew he was obsessing, reviewing, and rewriting events in repetitive anguish. As he lay hyperventilating, he realized the more his adrenaline surged, the more his extreme stress slowed down his perception of time. Even though this happened to everyone, so their brains could think quickly enough to survive, with the addition of the Hippo 2.0, no perceived detail could be lost. Was this mechanical access to memory like near-death experiences, when victims said they reviewed their lives? What would watching his life pass before him feel like? Did he do the right things? Did he do enough? Was becoming something more than normal worth saving his technology? Peter still believed so. Except for his dreams, being a cyborg felt great. Empowering. More complete. As a neuroscientist, he had to accept that Peter Bernhardt was his brain. His brain’s changes meant he changed.
He was not the same man Amanda had married. He was more.
He fell back asleep, but awoke a few times more from traumatic dreams to reach out and grab his sleeping wife, to hold her as a comfort, but even though he wrapped himself around her soft, warm body, she had taken a Xanax before bed and didn’t wake up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The southbound traffic on the 280 flowed, and the late evening sunset in the July sky cast the yellow hills and dark green oaks with an orange glow that made the dried grasses appear to be lit by fire. The Corvette flew at eighty-three miles per hour in the fast lane. It had been one week since Chang’s death. Listening to news on the old Corvette’s radio, Peter heard a headline: “10/26 Terrorist Part of Chinese Cell.” The report claimed Chang Eng was a long-sequestered mole and covert operative for the Chinese government.
